


The Concussion

by alicephantomwise



Category: Arthurian Mythology & Adaptations - All Media Types, Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-02
Updated: 2010-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicephantomwise/pseuds/alicephantomwise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Merlin," said Arthur in what he felt was a very reasonable tone. "What are you doing?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Concussion

“Merlin,” said Arthur in what he felt was a very reasonable tone. “What are you doing?”

“Er,” said Merlin eloquently, looking around desperately like he rather hoped that Arthur might be addressing someone else named Merlin who might be standing nearby. “Oh, _this_. This – no. This isn’t what it looks like.”

“ _Really_ ,” said Arthur, and he’d been utterly exhausted about two minutes ago, but now he – wasn’t. “Because what it looks like is—”

“I _know what it looks like_ ,” Merlin said, and then added, “ _Sire_ ,” in that particularly disobedient way that was actually worse than it would’ve been had he left the title off. “But that isn’t – it.”

“Hmm,” Arthur said, pulling the door open properly. “So you have a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

He actually didn’t care if Merlin had an explanation, reasonable or not. Arthur’s skin was slick with cooled sweat and Merlin’s room was kind of small and it would’ve been cozy if it wasn’t so damp and musty and normally he didn’t venture in here, but if he’d known that Merlin was doing _this_ behind the closed door, well, he’d have come down here much more often.

“Um,” said Merlin, and his cheeks had gone a delicate pink and that was quite nice, but that pink swept towards his ears and deepened into a violet red and that was interesting too, but not nearly as interesting as the way Merlin’s dark hair curled under his ears, how the hair at the nape of Merlin’s neck was all – feathery.

“Well, of course I do,” Merlin said, with newfound indignation. “Not that it’s any of your business, you’re not _owed_ some sort of explanation. What I do behind closed doors—”

“Your door was open,” Arthur said dismissively. “Well, half-open. Ajar. Nearly ajar.”

“It was _locked_ ,” Merlin said.

“Was it really?” Arthur said. “Hmm. You might have the locksmith look at that.”

“You _broke the door_ ,” Merlin said, and he was really one to be judgmental right now.

This was probably true, given the feeble and pathetic moan the door had given when Arthur had wrenched the door from its frame, but that wasn’t his fault, his servant had gone missing and there were baths to be poured and anyway, it was his castle and he could tear a door off its hinges if he wanted to.

“My bath isn’t ready,” Arthur said. “And so I came looking for it. And then I found you. And this.” He sort of gestured and he watched intently as Merlin’s mouth curled down in the corners and that shouldn’t have been so appealing because it was just _wrong_ and _God_ , he didn’t even know what this was and he should probably step back outside and just forget this because this was very, very wrong.

“So,” Arthur said, because common sense was common and he was _royalty_. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“Oh, you want to _hear_ it,” Merlin said in a slow, meaningful way that was just Merlin’s way of stalling for time. “You want to hear – it. The reason.” His teeth were a white gleam between very red lips and Merlin was – oh God, he _was –_ so close and there were so many reasons for Arthur to leave, but clearly Kay had hit him too hard over the head and probably there was a concussion and if anything happened, he could always blame it on the concussion and he could pretend he’d come down to see Gaius and obviously it was perfectly reasonable that he’d been distracted by the spectacle Merlin was making of himself. Lots of people would have been overcome if they were here to see it, because it was quite a spectacle.

“Yes, Merlin,” Arthur said. “I’d like to hear the reason. Or even _a_ reason.”

Merlin’s face was twisted into something decidedly not pretty – not that Arthur had ever thought of Merlin’s prettiness in one way or another, he _hadn’t_ , and if he was now, it was due to this concussion that was mangling his brain because he’d never think that Merlin was pretty if he wasn’t drowning in what was obviously insanity.

“I’m doing,” Merlin said, looking extremely pained, “a favor. To Gwen.”

“To Gwen,” Arthur said, with instant and deep suspicion. And the sickness that slithered into his stomach and greedily clasped his heart and squeezed was due to his concussion. Concussions were terrible things; they made your eyes flash red and they made your palms all sweaty even though it was cool in here and there was no reason to be _nervous_.

“I have a concussion,” Arthur announced.

Merlin seemed puzzled. Which, again, Arthur felt was ridiculous, considering what Merlin was doing.

“You should get that checked out,” Merlin said finally. “Gaius – Gaius will be back soon. Maybe,” he said with the brightness of one who’d just had a great epiphany, “you should go wait for Gaius. _Outside_. I’ll just – I’ll just slide the door back into place after you and we can forget that this ever happened. Or maybe if you have a concussion, you don’t even _know_ this is happening. This might not even be happening!” Merlin said, with an escalating and girlish sort of hysteria. “This is a _dream_ , Arthur. A dream that has no similarities whatsoever to reality and soon you will be waking up and this will _never have happened_.”

One day, Arthur thought optimistically, someone would come to court claiming that a Merlin-shaped lunatic had escaped from his cell in some far-off place and everything would be sorted out. Because, _really_ , such idiocy had to stem from a mental condition.

“Don’t be such an idiot, Merlin,” Arthur said, in the tone of one commanding a river not to run or the sun not to shine. “It’s not that kind of concussion.”

“Oh?” Merlin said, and he had no right to be doing this, switching from defense back to offense so quickly, like an insane squirrel flying from tree to ridiculous tree. He had no right to have such long lashes and such wide eyes and he especially had no right to be peering up at Arthur through those lashes even if he was slightly, very, very slightly (and Arthur darkly suspected it was those ludicrous ears that were somehow elongating his head) taller than Arthur.

“Then what kind of concussion is it?”

It was the type of concussion that had Arthur wanting to draw a hand down Merlin’s back just to feel the knobs of his spine. It was the type that had Arthur wanting to thumb under Merlin’s eyelashes, to feel them whisper against his skin. It was also the type that had Arthur wondering if Merlin’s lips were chapped like Arthur’s were, or if they were soft like a girl’s.

“It’s terrible,” Arthur said, and if he was croaking a bit like a frog, well, the air in here was too damp. And possibly damp air didn’t make your throat dry, but that was a technicality.

“Made _worse_ ,” Arthur continued forcefully because he was not going to be manhandled – which was not the right word, there had to be a better word but he couldn’t _think of one_ – by his manservant. Not that there was any handling going on and not that Arthur _wanted_ there to be handling. Anyway, there was that concussion. “Made _worse_ by the fact that my bath is not laid out and lunch hasn’t been served and you’re standing around doing – I’ve no idea what you’re doing; what _are_ you doing?”

“Er,” Merlin said, and Arthur felt like they’d gone through this before, but then Merlin said, “It’s for _Gwen_ , I’m helping her out because that’s what friends do! They don’t break through doors and – and laugh—”

“We’re not friends,” said Arthur with a moment of deep horror. “And also, I am not laughing.”

“We really are,” Merlin said, and Arthur would’ve argued that if Merlin hadn’t bent forward to curl a hand around Arthur’s elbow for no reason. It was just that Merlin’s clavicles were shadowed and sharp and clearly this concussion was a dangerous, dangerous thing. “But you’re not, aren’t you?”

“You’re not making any sense,” Arthur said, appalled by the way his voice had gone all plaintive at the end, and that was the problem with Merlin, he didn’t make any _sense_ and – “and you’re wearing a _dress_.”

Merlin flushed again, so red that if he got any redder he might actually turn some other unexpected color, like blue. “It’s not _my_ dress,” he muttered rebelliously. “It’s Morgana’s.”

Merlin’s hand was warm through Arthur’s sleeve. Arthur tried to ignore it. By fixating on Merlin’s mouth.

“Of course it is,” Arthur said gallantly. “And it’s purple.”

Merlin’s other hand – the one not molesting Arthur, with its devious fingers all clutching Arthur’s elbow, and Arthur should probably yank his hand away soon because heterosexuality was nice and safe but then again Merlin was wearing a dress – was resting against his silken skirts. “It _is_ ,” he insisted. “Morgana’s.” He ducked his head a bit helplessly, smiling a sweet, crooked smile and oh _God_ , Arthur had to get away from here because Merlin was wearing a dress, _Merlin_ who was too boyish and rectangular wearing a feminine dress that somehow made him look all the more boyish and rectangular. And what was Arthur, for wanting all of Merlin’s boyish rectangularness, with those thin white ankles amidst all that dragging silk?

“It’s the concussion,” Arthur assured Merlin before his hand curved around Merlin’s neck and dragged him in.

Merlin made a faint protesting noise that gave way to a less faint, much less protesting noise, and then his hand was at Arthur’s chest and this felt so _wrong_ because Merlin was all hard ribs and hipbones against him and it was so different from soft Gwen. And Gwen knew how to kiss properly but clearly no one had taught Merlin because he was too much teeth and tongue, like he was trying to eat Arthur from the inside out. And it was _wrong_ except it wasn’t because this was _Merlin_ and he already knew what Merlin felt like under his hands – skittering pulse and bluish veins, all elbows and wrists – because he’d looked at those angles, studied that smile a thousand times.

He pushed Merlin against the wall and Merlin went agreeably and hit it too hard and he was concerned at first because Merlin was so delicate, but Merlin hit the wall and his hands scrabbled for Arthur and Arthur went and if this was a concussion, that was fine and good, and he wanted to have this concussion forever because Merlin was all greedy mouth and straight side, hard where girls would be soft, and Arthur thought desperately that this was _better_ because it was Merlin and he’d never known halfway when it came to Merlin. There were no confusing signals here – except for Merlin’s dress, but possibly the dress actually made everything easier and anyway, if he’d expected Merlin to be normal – well, he hadn’t. Not that he’d expected anything, not even on those days when Merlin looked at him with a trembling mouth and bright eyes like he could see something in him that Arthur never found in the mirror, hard as he tried.

He shoved up Merlin’s skirts and the skin was warm and then Merlin was struggling with Arthur’s tunic and it was all the usual moves – skirt lifted up, mouth against mouth – but it was different because Merlin’s legs were kind of bony and Arthur’s hand kept trying to curve around a breast that wasn’t there. But there was Merlin hard against Arthur’s hipbone and that should’ve felt unnatural, except it was the easiest thing in the world to slide a thigh between Merlin’s legs, to shift _up_.

Merlin made some more soft helpless noises low in his throat and Arthur buried his face into the slope of Merlin’s neck and bit down and Merlin moaned like no one had ever done that to him before and maybe no one had, but then Arthur forgot what he was thinking because Merlin was whispering _Arthur Arthur Arthur_ in a reverent sort of way that was _brilliant_.

Arthur reached for the corset’s laces but they were _ridiculous_ and _how_ Gwen had done them up, Arthur had no idea, because they _made no sense_ and it was hard to concentrate with Merlin whimpering against him, mouth warm and wet against Arthur’s neck, terribly distracting and terribly wonderful.

Merlin thumped his head hard against the wall and Arthur was about ready to rip the skirts off him when the door, unhinged as Arthur felt right now, fell away with Gaius’ knock.

Arthur slowly turned around.

“Oh,” said Gaius, with the sort of lost voice that Gaius probably hadn’t used in seventy-some years. “Oh. Sorry. I’ll just—” and he very wisely left.

Arthur was tangled in Merlin’s construct of arms and legs and silken skirts and he extracted himself even though he wanted to press himself back against Merlin and feel their bones knocking together.

Merlin’s mouth was red and messy with kisses. And he was looking everywhere but at Arthur.

And the silence was too heavy and he wanted Merlin to make one of his stupid jokes. Then he could pretend to scowl and Merlin could pretend to be offended, and everything would be okay. And this wouldn’t just be a huge mistake, kissing Merlin in Morgana’s dress against the wall.

Merlin was idly picking at his sleeve and _God_ , Arthur wanted to kiss him. Wanted to drop down underneath those skirts and – well, something, he’d have figured it out.

“It was the concussion,” Merlin said after a moment.

 _Exactly_ , Arthur thought, and he almost leapt upon that except Merlin’s mouth was downturned like he was unhappy and Arthur secretly hated the days when Merlin was unhappy, when he went about his duties like he was walking out to his execution, when he accepted Arthur’s orders without any fuss – well, actually, Arthur quite liked that part – and darted around like a scared little mouse. And that was what Merlin sounded like now, deflated and miserable.

Arthur stared at the ground and tried not to look at the deep purple of the skirts. “No,” he said. “Don’t be absurd, Merlin. I am much too manly to be _concussed_.” He personally felt that this was not really much better but Merlin looked a bit more hopeful. He wasn’t smiling exactly, but his head was tipped to the right like he was curious or at least intrigued, and his eyes had got bright and it was ridiculous, Merlin standing in a dress and Arthur wanting him, with or without the dress.

“Well, I know that,” said Merlin solemnly. “It would take a lot for such a thick head as _yours_ to be concussed.”

“Exactly,” said Arthur absently and Merlin smiled and it was strange but then again it was always strange.

Arthur reached out and slid his thumb across Merlin’s bottom lip before he knew what he was doing.

And then before Gaius – who was rattling around and talking loudly to himself outside – possibly had a heart attack from seeing the way Merlin had been trying to climb into Arthur’s skin, Arthur spun around to leave. And promptly tripped over the door, which was lying uselessly on the ground.

He hit the ground hard and the world flashed black and then white.

“Arthur?” Merlin said worriedly, bending over him. “Sire? Are you all right?”

This would’ve been a nice view if that dress had been on someone like Morgana. Given that the dress was on Merlin – it was actually kind of nicer.

And then Arthur pressed the heel of his palm into his temple because he really couldn’t have just thought that.

“I think,” he said with deep foreboding, “that I have a concussion.”

*


End file.
